


Corporate Identity

by doctor__idiot



Series: SPN Kink Bingo 2017 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 4x17 "It's a Terrible Life", Episode Related, Implied Bottom Dean, M/M, Office Sex, Sibling Incest, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2017, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 12:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11463333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: The first thing he becomes aware of is that he’s starving. He’s aching for a cheeseburger and some French fries but that will have to wait. Because the second thing that filters through is Zachariah’s ill-fitting suit and his infuriatingly self-satisfied grin with which he’s staring right down at Dean.





	Corporate Identity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN Kink Bingo](http://spnkinkbingo.tumblr.com/) square "Office Sex".

There’s the familiar tingle of an angelic tap to his forehead and Dean is almost knocked over by the fierce suddenness of all his memories flooding back in. Memories that were taken from him and it’s all a jumbled-up mess of his old life – his _real_ life – and Dean Smith, who now feels like a ridiculous theater role he’s been playing for the past six weeks. 

The first thing he becomes aware of is that he’s _starving_. He’s aching for a cheeseburger and some French fries but that will have to wait. Because the second thing that filters through is Zachariah’s ill-fitting suit and his infuriatingly self-satisfied grin with which he’s staring right down at Dean. 

He’s barely listening to what the angel is saying because he’s too hot all of a sudden, desperate to loosen his tie and his collar, because the third thing he registers is the throbbing ache in his ass and the crick in his back from getting bent of this very desk he’s leaning on not twenty minutes ago. He’s sweating, his fingers start to tremble and he holds on to the edge of the desk hard enough that his knuckles turn white.

Jesus Christ, he needs to get out of here. He needs to find his car – his _real_ car, his everything – and get the hell out of here and never _ever_ look back or even think about this place again. He needs to find Sam and–oh God, Sam.

It’s all he can do not to crumble, his elbows threatening to give out and finally there’s the flutter of wings and Zachariah vanishes into thin air after he apparently grew sick of Dean ignoring him.

Dean takes a moment to fall apart, resting his forehead against the cool surface of the desk before taking a deep breath and fishing in his pockets for his phone. He hits Sam’s speed dial button and mutters under his breath, “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” while secretly hoping Sam will do no such thing.

There’s a click in the line, “Dean?” and all the air is drawn from Dean’s lungs.

“Sam,” he croaks, “Where are you?”

“Parking garage,” comes the curt reply through some static, “Found the car.”

Dean closes his eyes. “First good news of the day. Alright, stay there, I’m heading down.”

He disconnects the call without giving Sam the chance to say anything else in case his brother wants to talk, like he likes to do, preferably about things that Dean has no intention of talking about ever, not with Sam and not with anyone else. This right here definitely makes the list.

He rummages through every drawer in the too-clean office, praying that his keys will be here somewhere and not at the apartment – Dean _Smith’s_ apartment – and he won’t have to hotwire his baby. This day is horrible enough as it is. 

He finds them after ten full minutes and he quickly whips off his tie and throws it on the lush carpet floor with more force than necessary. He would really like to punch something – or someone.

Sam is tapping his foot impatiently by the time Dean tumbles out of the elevator in the underground garage of Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. He’s still dressed in that ridiculous polo shirt and the beyond ugly khakis and at any other time Dean would have made endless fun of him. But right now there’s something stuck in his throat that prevents him from speaking. He simply hurries to the driver side door and slides behind the wheel, jams the keys into the ignition.

The familiar howl of the engine calms him a little but he’s still tense, sitting stiffly, and for the first time in his life, being in the car is stressful instead of relaxing. To his right Sam is picking at a hangnail, looking down at his hands with more concentration than it should take to peel a piece of skin off but Dean is grateful for the silence. He can’t stop himself from flicking his eyes over occasionally, watching Sam out of the corner of his eyes, and he’s trying not to imagine–trying not to _remember_.

_I need to see you in my office._

God, he _flirted_ with Sam, so entirely oblivious to what he was doing and what it would mean for them.

_I used some skills that I happen to have to … satisfy my curiosity._

_Oh yeah? And what kind of skills would those be?_

Dean shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s desperate for a drink but he’s equally desperate – if not more – to put as much space between them and this city as possible, and fast.

They briefly stop for food and then it takes thee full hours of stifling quiet until Dean feels comfortable enough to pull over at a small-town motel, something more familiar to him than a twenty-story office building. Sam doesn’t argue. To be fair, he looks as exhausted as Dean feels.

Dean stands a little lost in front of the motel while Sam is getting them a room. When he comes back, jiggling the keys between his fingers, he shoots Dean a glance out of the corner of his eye.

“What?”

Sam’s mouth curls, he reaches out and hooks his pinky under the strap of the suspenders and tugs it a little so it smacks back against Dean’s chest. Dean gasps, shudders. He’s completely forgotten he’s still wearing the stupid things. Quick as lightning he grabs the room key from Sam and unlocks the door so he can get out these monkey clothes.

Sleep doesn’t come easy to either of them, both lying in their twin beds, three feet apart, staring blankly at the ceiling. Dean falls sleep at some point but when he wakes up it doesn’t feel like he even got a second of actual rest. He distantly remembers dreaming something weird. It involved suspenders, a cackling ghost, and Sam’s hands in some way. 

He shakes clear of it, shoves it away, doesn’t even _want_ to remember, and shuffles into the bathroom. He splashes cold water into his face, avoiding his own face in the mirror in the dawn-low light. Since he is already awake, he might as well go out and get coffee.

By the time he comes back Sam’s awake, too, dressed in a thin T-shirt and jeans and he’s searching the web, presumably looking for their next job.

Work, yes, good. Dean can do that. He’s itching to kill something.

Sam mutters his thanks for the coffee, sips it while it’s still too hot, and then shows Dean something on the screen. An attack on a young woman up in Washington – it’s incredibly thin material but Dean’s up for anything right now and he’s shrugging into his jacket before Sam even has the chance to put some socks on.

They continue not to talk about it and Dean is surprised – but glad – that not even Sam brings it up. He looks at Dean a little strangely sometimes but Dean can ignore that. He shoves it all to the back of his mind in typical Winchester fashion and doesn’t let it interfere with their work. If sometimes there are awkward silences while they’re eating or driving or spending their time in too-small motel rooms, that’s just the way it’s going to have to be.

Their hunts have mostly been easy to deal with: vampires, werewolves, the occasional wraith, and one poltergeist. Dean still feels the bruise on his left shoulder blade from that particular encounter.

But then it’s witches and Dean _hates_ witches. He’s dressed in a cheap suit, checking the second victim’s address on his phone while he waits for Sam to come back from the coroner’s office with the paperwork. 

“Okay,” Sam says as he pulls open the door and falls into the passenger seat, long legs folded against the dashboard, “Harris died in his office, right there at his desk. His assistant found him in the morning. Cause of death was a heart attack.”

“As if,” Dean snorts and checks his watch. “The building’s gonna be deserted now. You wanna wait till morning or break in to check out the office?”

Sam blows out a breath, his bangs flying into his face. “Might as well do it now. Less question answering. ‘m tired of people.”

That forces a laugh out of Dean. Out of habit he raps his knuckles against Sam’s thigh and starts the car, ready to manoeuver the Impala through the last bit of rush hour traffic.

Sam shoots him a quick glance, something unreadable that Dean doesn’t know how to deal with. It’s become more and more impossible to ignore, the way Sam’s eyes wander all too frequently, the way he zones out and stares sometimes, hiding it with a cough. The occasional flush in his cheeks that always seems to come out of nowhere, right away followed by an inability to meet Dean’s eyes.

It’s disconcerting to say the least.

They break into the building easily, Dean picking the lock almost silently after disabling the below-standard alarm system, and take the stairs up.

“You think the police already found the hex bag? If there is one.”

Dean grimaces. “I’d bet my right ass cheek that there is – or was – one, just like with the first victim, that Susanna girl. Let’s just hope that they weren’t as thorough as they should be.”

Sam snorts. “So what are we thinking? Business guy had an affair, scorned witch-y wife took revenge?”

“If it looks like a duck,” Dean says.

They reach the second floor and Dean, once more, picks the lock to Harris’s office. It’s almost unnaturally pristine inside, although that might have more to do with the crime scene cleaners than with Harris being a neat freak. Although, who knows?

Dean starts opening random drawers, searching through them, and suddenly he’s transported back to five weeks ago and he tenses up. He’s got his back to Sam but somehow Sam still notices something’s off. Sometimes Dean’s brother is too perceptive for his own good.

“What is it? You found something?”

“No,” Dean says, trying not to sound breathless, “I just–Never mind. Thought I saw something.”

Sam, for once in his life, lets it go and it borders on a miracle.

After twenty more minutes of searching Dean is ready to call it quits but then Sam makes a silly triumphant sound that easily makes him appear about ten years younger. He wriggles his arm out of the cranny between two cupboards, holding a small brown leather bag in his hand.

“Looks like your right ass cheek is in luck,” he says, “In the potted plant. Smart.”

Dean huffs. “Don’t compliment the bad guys, Sammy,” purposefully ignoring the ass cheek comment even though he’s the one who started it.

He leans backwards against the desk, scooting back a little so he’s half-sitting on it. “What’s in it?” 

Sam stares at him, head tilted, his eyes following the line of Dean’s body down to where he’s got his ankles crossed in his dress pants, and Dean isn’t sure he’s listening. He waves a hand in his brother’s face. 

Sam snaps to attention, unties the little cord around the hex bag. “Uh, the usual stuff. Herbs, bones, feathers, nothing out of the ordinary. But definitely fatal if you want it to be.”

He folds the leather back over the ingredients for one hell of an heart attack and stuffs it into his jacket pocket.

“Alright, let’s go.” Dean is about to push off the desk but Sam halts him with a hand to his shoulder. He can feel the warmth of it through two layers of clothing. “What is it? Did we miss something?”

“Just … hold on a second.”

Dean waits patiently for an explanation but when nothing comes his patience dissipates. “Sam, what the–“

He is cut short by Sam’s other hand landing on his opposite shoulder, thumb sneaking under the lapel of his suit jacket. Sam is too close, closer than he’s been in a while – five weeks to be exact – and Dean doesn’t know how to deal with it. He flushes hot, itching to take off his jacket but then there will only be one layer separating him from the body heat of Sam’s palms and he isn’t sure he can handle that.

It’s a moot point when Sam’s hands slide up around the back of his neck and into the short hair at his nape and he shivers violently.

“Sam, we can’t–“ he begins but it’s not what he wants to say. He wants to say, _Don’t stop_ , wants to plead, _Don’t you dare stop_. “Not here.”

He can feel it warm against his face when Sam releases his breath. “Not here? Is that your problem with this?”

He’s honestly asking and Dean doesn’t know what to do with honesty this open, this raw. “I–One of them, yeah.”

Sam strokes a finger up to his ear, traces the shell of it, and Dean wishes he could stop trembling. “Just … trust me.”

_Always._

It isn’t a matter of trust, it never was. Dean is his own problem and he hasn’t figured himself out yet. But Sam’s fingers are strong and sure as they stroke over his skin and his mouth falls open a little. He exhales shakily, his eyes shivering closed on their own accord. Sam’s thumb brushes up against his cheek, following the curve of his lashes. Dean is somehow still fighting the impulse to reach out and grab and pull in, because it’s the right thing to do and it _matters_ , dammit, but Sam bulldozes clear through all his discipline as he steps closer, in between Dean’s legs, pushing them apart. 

He learns in and nuzzles Dean’s temple, just the slightest brush of his lips against the bow of Dean’s brow, and that’s all Dean can take.

He lifts his hands that have been hanging uselessly by his sides and finds the line of Sam’s jaw. He traces his fingers along it, up to the corner of Sam’s mouth, not sure what exactly he’s looking for here, but luckily Sam seems to know because his lips curve into a smile. Dean’s still got his eyes closed but he can feel it against the tips of his fingers, the fullness of Sam’s bottom lip. Sam leans down farther then, kissing him, pressing their mouths together with Dean’s fingers still trapped in between. Sam takes Dean’s hand in his, pulls it away, intertwines their fingers. 

It’s too much, not enough, and it’s only when Sam shushes him softly that Dean realizes he’s making tiny halting noises, half-swallowed by Sam’s gentle mouth.

And it is gentle, entirely different from what Dean imagined, from what he _remembers_ , but not any less or any better, just different. Unexpected.

Sam reaches down and untucks Dean’s shirt from his pants, unzipping his fly just enough that he can work the waistband off Dean’s hips and below his ass. Dean gasps into Sam’s mouth at the sudden chill over air on his heated skin and against the hot line of his half-hard cock, grabs hold of Sam’s shoulders as Sam kisses him harder for a moment, then pulls away.

“What–“

Sam shushes him again, this time with more force behind it, and Dean clicks his mouth shut. He can’t, however, stop the quiet moan when Sam’s calloused hand closes around his erection, dry, slow friction, and he bucks his hips into it, seeking more.

He is suddenly bereft of Sam’s mouth and body heat as Sam sinks to his knees in front of him, nuzzling across Dean’s stomach and flicking his tongue into Dean’s navel on his way down. He wets his palm with his tongue and strokes the base of Dean’s dick, rolls his balls between his fingers, and Dean turns his mouth into his own shoulder to muffle all the embarrassing sounds threatening to spill.

He squeezes his eyes shut, letting the shivers wreck his body when Sam takes him into his mouth, deliciously wet heat around the tip of his cock and then farther down the shaft. He feels Sam’s throat swallow around him and Dean nearly chokes on his own spit, sucking in a breath. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, fingers curling in the stiff fabric of Sam’s jacket. 

Sam shrugs out of it and Dean finds heat bleeding through the thin cotton shirt, and he’s restless, the edge of the desk digging into the small of his back as he’s trying not to jerk forward into Sam’s mouth. Sam’s hands are holding him in place, fingers almost bruising on Dean’s naked hips but Dean doesn’t care. The thought of Sam leaving some sort of mark on him is actually sort of hot.

He gives another broken moan as Sam licks him base to tip, swirling his tongue around the head of Dean’s dick, sucking on it while stroking it with his hand until Dean is close to biting right through his bottom lip.

“Sammy,” he gasps and Sam hums around him, the vibrations of it bringing Dean to the edge of climax much faster than he would like. He can’t help himself, writhing and twisting against Sam’s grip, sure now that there will be purple bruises blooming tomorrow. He wants them there.

The intensity of his orgasm makes him reach for something to hold on to, burying his fingers in Sam’s hair and tugging hard, and Sam grunts. Dean says, “Sorry, sorry,” while he’s still shaking, Sam’s tongue still torturing him all the way through the aftershocks, cleaning his cock of cum and leaving it glistening with saliva.

Sam’s lips are bright pink when he pulls back, sucks in a breath, and Dean’s muscles are jelly but he manages to tug him up and pull him in for a dirty kiss. Sam hums into his mouth.

“What about–” Dean reaches for the clasp of Sam’s dress pants, “Let me–“

Sam’s fingers gently curl around Dean’s wrist, halting him in his tracks. He’s smiling softly as he looks down at Dean. “I’m good for now. We–We should go back to the motel. If you still wanna do something about it then, I won’t stop you.”

Dean knows what this is. It’s Sam giving him space, telling him, _It’s okay, I want this_ , without so many words. He’s leaving the decision of what is going to happen now to Dean because Sam has already made it quite clear that he’s in it for the long haul.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to put this behind them and never think about it ever again.

Dean knows he’s been fooling himself. You can’t _un_ -fuck your brother. And he’s not so sure he wants to even make an effort anymore. He’s tired. He may be a master represser but he isn’t stupid.

It started out as a fluke and if it had stayed as such, it would have been fine. But there hasn’t been a night in the past five weeks where Dean didn’t think about Sam in some way, shape, or form. He never followed through, never touched Sam, never got out of bed in the middle of the night to crawl into bed with Sam like he wanted to so many times. He never even jerked off to any fantasies, no matter how many times he woke up with a hard-on.

It’s all there now. Sam is practically offering it on a plate and it might be the most colossally stupid idea either of them has ever had but Dean wants it so much it almost physically hurts. 

He’s still catching his breath when he says, voice rough, “Alright. Let’s go.”


End file.
